


Sailor Stories

by axmaree



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axmaree/pseuds/axmaree
Summary: Wind likes to tell stories. "I was a sailor" he says. He tells sailor stories, of giant octorocks and days on the open sea with only fish and dried fruit to eat and his wit to keep him going, but it's all with a smile. He doesn't tell them it felt impossible. He doesn't tell them about the fear.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 242





	Sailor Stories

The heroes like to tell stories.

Each one of them has some crazy story to tell. The time Wild shield surfed off a cliff directly into a moblin camp, earning himself a shattered ankle and broken arm. Or the time Sky pulled out his sailcloth a little too late and smacked directly into the stone ground, right in front of Zelda. Or any number of war stories that Warriors spouts. The list goes on.

Wind likes to tell stories too. Pulling out his—Aryll's—telescope and miming his best heroic pose as he tells them all sorts of stories. "I was a sailor" he says. He tells sailor stories, of giant octorocks and days on the open sea with only fish and dried fruit to eat and his wit to keep him going, but it's all with a smile. He doesn't tell them about the way his stomach gnawed at him for days on end when his rations weren't enough and he couldn't catch any fish. He doesn't talk about the way jerky tasted like sandpaper by the end of his months on the sea, or that the reason he refuses dried fruit when its offered as a snack is because the mere thought of tasting it again makes him want to vomit. He jokes about his resourcefulness instead.

And when he talks about the massive storms and waves so big and fierce it's like they were sentient, the others think he's pulling their leg, and they all laugh together. Hyrule is landlocked for most of them, and they either can't or don't want to believe that a wave could be as tall as the spire of the Temple of Time. When Wind gathers them around a fire and tells them about the way he sailed through a storm that threatened to pull him into the murky depths, fill his lungs with saltwater and sand, only the eyes of a pink-haired hero stare back with grim understanding.

And only that hero hears stories of the nights he was out on the open sea where the moon was covered by thick clouds and the waves felt as tall as mountains and the rain fell in sheets so thick he couldn't see three feet in front of him that he thought it wouldn't be a monster that took him out, it wouldn't be Ganondorf that killed him, but the very sea he calls home.

* * *

Wind learned to hold things when it stormed. His boat tossed and bucked through the waves, throwing him this way and that in a way that even the King of Red Lions couldn't prevent, so he learned to hold on. Hold a rope, tie it so tight around your wrist it burns. Dig your fingernails into the wood of the boat. Something.

The others don't really acknowledge it. They all have their quirks, the little things that make them twitchy, so no one says anything when Wind scoots closer to them during a storm. They don't ask, and he doesn't tell. He shows no fear, only a twitch in his hands until he finds something to grasp onto—a blanket, a bag, an arm. No one says anything when thunder crashes and his knuckles go white around whatever he's holding.

Wind only remembers one time anyone said anything, on a night in Wild's Hyrule when a storm was particularly bad. He'd been somewhere between awake and asleep, tossing and turning under the tarp they'd used for shelter and trying to ignore the peals of thunder as they rolled over the hills. Part of his mind was back on the sea, feeling every drop that blew onto his face as a mountainous wave, every flash of lightning an opening in the darkness before the waves sucked him back under.

He'd woken to Wild shaking him gently, whispering his name. _"Wind, Wind, wake up. Wind… Link, c'mon. Wake up."_

He'd blinked sleep out of his eyes, sending images of the endless sea away with it. Wild's eyes were on his wrist, hands working with something. No, not hands—a knife. Cutting. Wind remembers the way his eyes slowly moved to his wrist as his brain caught up with the pain, the look of the rope he didn't remember grabbing digging into his wrist, bloody and swollen and purple, the way Wild's hands were steady in a way that didn't match the concern in his eyes.

Wild had smeared some sort of minty herbal concoction on Wind's wrist and wrapped it in white bandages, murmuring apologies for no one selling healing potions in his Hyrule. Wind had only blinked, his mind still trying to process.

Wild wrapped Wind in a blanket and guided him to the smaller tarp, the one set up for whoever was on watch. He rubbed soothing circles on Wind's back. He didn't ask any questions, but his eyes begged for an answer.

"You have to hold on in a storm."

Thinking back now, Wind knows the answer made little sense, but Wild's eyes had held an understanding in them. He'd guided Wind's hand into his own. "Hold onto me."

No one says anything when Wind holds on in a storm. Wild only holds out one hand, and doesn't say a word when Wind grabs it and squeezes back.

* * *

Supplies are precious when sailing, especially on a small boat. Wind likes to tell stories of his long voyages, both before and after Ganondorf was sealed. The ones where he has to be creative in how he rations his food and has to pack all the necessities while still traveling light. He doesn't always sail with Tetra's crew back home—voyages on his own boat must be very carefully supplied.

This also means that losing supplies is an absolute no.

On Tetra's boat, if a storm knocks a few things off the boat, it isn't a huge deal. Most of the time supplies are belowdecks anyways, so the chances of losing anything are slim-to-none. In Wind's boat, those chances go way up. Even on a normal day, choppy water could risk a few things falling off the sides.

It became second nature for Wind to hop off the boat and retrieve things if the water was calm enough. Something would go flying—a bag of bait, a few apples—and Wind would fly right off after it without thinking. Supplies were precious.

When Wind hears a splash and a string of curses from Warriors, he doesn't hesitate before diving off the bridge with a shout of "I got it!"

He registers the cold before he registers the water. His muscles freeze up with a gasp, and it takes all his strength to remember what he dove in for. He saw Warriors drop it—the small bag of fruit he'd been rummaging through just moments before. He ignores the shouts of the others and dives under the water to retrieve the bag.

It takes a few moments, but his hands grasp the leather strap and he kicks up towards the shore. The current tugs at his clothes, icy and fast, threatening to pull him away. Why isn't he moving? He tries to swim with the current rather than against it, but he stays in place. His heart thunders in his chest.

Wind kicks towards the surface, but a tug at his side keeps him from surfacing. His tunic—its caught. He grasps frantically at the fabric, but his fingers won't move, frozen by the cold. Panic seeps into his burning chest—how long has it been since he's breathed? He feels his way down the caught fabric, down to the rocky riverbed. It's so dark, so cold, he can hardly move. He scrabbles at the rocks, trying to pull the fabric out. How did it get so caught?

He tugs, trying desperately to pull it free. He doesn't want to rip his tunic, but he will if he has to. Fabric can be fixed. He pulls, but his limbs feel heavier. His fingers are stiff, and he long since stopped feeling the hand wrapped around the leather strap.

With all his strength, Wind tugs at the fabric, tearing it free from the rock it's caught on. He kicks to the surface, gasping for air as his head breaks the water. Someone grabs his shoulders as soon as he surfaces and tugs him to the riverbank. They're saying something, but Wind can hardly register what. His lungs burn. He can't move.

Someone pries open his fingers and takes the bag, another pulls off his tunic and replaces it with something far too big, but at least it's dry. He doesn't know if he fell asleep or zoned out, but now there's a fire and blankets, and someone is setting up camp.

"Wind? Wind? Hey, you with us?" Wild, kneeling in front of him. He holds out a steaming bowl of something. Soup or stew. "Can you eat? Here, let me help."

Wind doesn't bother protesting as Wild lifts spoonful of the stuff—soup—to his lips. Wind sips, and he can't deny that its delicious. It warms his aching chest enough that he feels comfortable to move again, and he gratefully takes the bowl and spoon from Wild with a smile. After a few more bites, his brain feels functional enough to speak. "I'm good."

Wild's shoulders slump in relief. "Goddess, what were you thinking?"

"Warriors dropped his bag," Wind says.

"But you didn't have to dive in after it!"

"Yeah I did? Supplies are important." What doesn't Wild understand?

"You don't—Wind," Wild sighs. "Not more important than you. My Hyrule… this isn't the Great Sea. You swim in this part of Hyrule, at this time of night? You'll catch your death."

Oh.

The rest of Wind's brain clicks into place, and he chokes on his soup. Goddess, he's an _idiot._ It was like he hadn't even thought, it was just a reflex. Get the supplies. It's second nature to him.

Suddenly he feels the cold and exhaustion, seeping into his bones. He almost _drowned,_ and, if it hadn't been for the others, the hypothermia would've gotten him eventually. Tears sting at the backs of his eyes, and he tries to no avail to blink them away.

Wild gathers him up, pressing his too-cold body into the warmth of the older hero's chest. Wind huddles closer, curling into the comfort and safety. He doesn't care that he's being treated like a little kid; he just wants to be warm. He doesn't know when he drifts off to sleep, but it's within the secure embrace of his older brother.

* * *

Wind likes to tell stories. Stories of his time on the Great Sea. Of perils and wit and danger around every island, lurking beneath the dark and choppy waves. He doesn't talk about the truth beneath the stories of the storms, or the fear interwoven with his heroics. He doesn't want to seem weak, like a little kid, but the others know, and they understand. No hero is without emotion, and no hero is without fear. He doesn't tell them, but they know.

So they let him hold on in the storms and find him a fresh apple when the others eat it dried. They watch him carefully when crossing rivers and don't ask questions when he goes for a swim in warm weather. They watch him just like they watch each other, just like he watches them too. No hero is without fear, and every story holds some truth.

Wind likes to tell stories, but he doesn't tell them all. He holds a few close to his heart, for only him and the King to know. He sits watch at night, remembering long nights on the sea sailing through icy storms with no mercy to give. He remembers the water soaking through every layer of clothing, soaking him to his core, eyes stinging with salt water and skin raw from the wind he could hardly control. He sits watch and sees the sun peak over the horizon, remembering days where the same sun, thousands of years in the past or future, rose like a beacon, and he whispered through the exhaustion, _"We made it."_

**Author's Note:**

> We don't see enough Wind angst, so I decided to take it into my own hands.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it :)


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